The designer, a thoughtful man named Paul Mercer who was no relation to anybody important in this story, drew several options. I rejected the kidney-shaped pool because I wanted straight swimming lanes. Eventually we agreed on a rectangular in-ground concrete pool, twenty-two by forty-four feet, bordered by tile and surrounded by practical, nonslip coping. I wanted something built to last, not a resort brochure transferred into a suburban yard.
Construction began in early spring. Excavators arrived at seven in the morning and turned my peaceful backyard into a landscape of dirt piles, caution tape, and muddy tire tracks. A neighbor from two houses down asked whether I was digging a bunker. I told him it depended on how the inspection went. He laughed; the inspector did not, although I am fairly sure he had heard worse jokes during the course of his career.
I photographed the excavation every few days, partly because I was excited and partly because it seemed sensible to keep a visual record. Those photographs later joined the documents on my kitchen table in the presence of two police officers, but at the time they were simply pictures of a dream gradually taking shape. I remember standing at the edge of the hole after the steel reinforcement went in, watching men in dusty boots move between the forms and thinking how thoroughly a long-held wish could resemble a construction inconvenience.
The permit was issued in my name. The contract was signed by me. The payments came from an account that belonged to me. Every county inspection was recorded under 14 Cloverfield Road, and when the work was finished, the final certificate identified me as the property owner. This was not remarkable. Most homeowners accumulate a similar trail of documents whenever they make a substantial improvement to their property. The trail becomes remarkable only when somebody later claims that an improvement exists for their benefit instead of its owner's.
The day the pool was filled, I came home early from work and watched the water creep up the concrete walls. Paul stayed long enough to explain the initial chemistry readings and the importance of keeping the circulation equipment operating correctly. The maintenance schedule was more involved than my childhood fantasy had allowed. I had to learn about filters, water balance, winter preparation, safety inspections, and insurance responsibilities. My father came over that weekend, sat beneath the umbrella on the patio, and congratulated me on buying myself a second house that happened to contain water instead of furniture.
He was exaggerating, but not by much.
For twelve years, the pool became the most reliable source of uncomplicated happiness in my life. On weekday evenings, after staring at numbers and audit schedules until my eyes felt square, I would come home, change into a swimsuit, and lower myself into the water. The first moment was always cold enough to make me question the decision. The second was the one I waited for, when my shoulders relaxed and the day's noise disappeared beneath the small sound of ripples against tile.